Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
My face burns as I realize Parker and the nice pastry couple are still a few feet away—forced to witness the latest performance of Why Didn’t You Go to College and Become a Lawyer Like Your Father, Makena DeWitt, You Dum-Dum.
Dad stands beside me, oblivious to our audience. But then, he’s always had tunnel vision. “I’m not starting anything. I’m trying to help. You’re only thirty-three, honey. It’s not too late to build something real.”
“My restaurant was real!” I shoot back, hating how much I sound like seventeen-year-old me, the age I was when this fight started.
If I’d known it would last over a decade, maybe I would have given in and gone to Tulane. But probably not. I got my free spirit from my mother, but I got my stubborn-as-a-mule streak from this man.
This man, whose words land like blows as he counters, “Your restaurant is underwater. Literally and figuratively. And now you’re financially ruined. Again. Because you didn’t pay proper attention to a contract.”
“Sounds like I would have been a pretty shitty lawyer, then,” I say, lips twisting into an ugly smile, even as fresh tears rise in my eyes. “If I can’t even read a contract, I doubt I’d be very good at writing them. Huh, Dad? Maybe you’ve been barking up the wrong tree all these years.”
“This isn’t the time for jokes,” he says, his blond and silver eyebrows working into a frustrated shape.
“I’m not joking,” I say, my voice rising. “I’m asking for a second of fucking compassion. Is that too much to—”
“How about we go grab a tea?” Parker cuts in. “Or a coffee? Or a sedative of some kind and just…take a breath.”
Dad cuts a sharp glance Parker’s way, finally noticing that we aren’t alone. The pastry couple have thankfully moved on, but Parker is still here.
Still here, and still the kid I used to babysit.
And no, my father probably won’t connect the dots, but he has met Parker before. Several times. The summer his parents had their kitchen remodeled, they would drop him off at our house before they went to dinner and pick him up after.
Dad thought he was a smart kid.
His tone is much less approving now, as he asks, “I’m sorry, who are you?”
Parker stands up straighter, holding my father’s gaze, completely missing the panicked widening of my eyes as I will him not to spill the beans.
“Parker,” he says, making my teeth grind together. “Leo Parker.”
Well, fuck.
There it is.
My dad will forget a face from time to time—especially if he hasn’t seen the face since it was twelve—but he never forgets a name.
His expression undergoes a subtle, but elaborate, shift as his clever lawyer brain does the math and connects the dots. “Leo Parker,” he echoes, his gaze sliding to lock with mine as he adds, “The kid you used to babysit?”
Six words.
That’s all it takes to make me feel like I need a shower. Or a stint in a padded room. Or maybe a prison cell would be more appropriate.
“Is this where you’re staying? With him?” He continues when I don’t reply. “Is that your new plan? To ride the coattails of a man who used to look up to you when he was a child?”
The way his lip curls ever so slightly on ‘child’ is enough to sour my internal organs with shame.
“With respect, Mr. DeWitt, that’s none of your business.” Parker’s voice is calm, but there’s steel beneath it. “And I think Makena’s had enough for one morning.”
“And I think you have no business putting your oar into a family conversation, son,” my father says, displaying his superior mastery of the “watch where you’re stepping” tone.
Suddenly, I can’t handle another second of it.
If I don’t get away, I’m going to scream or claw my skin off or cry and beg my dad to forgive me for being such a disappointment.
Always a disappointment…
No matter how I kill myself trying to prove that I can finally be a success, finally be good enough to make my father proud.
And just like that, I’m running.
Again, the way I always do, past the bakery with its too-sugary pastries and gross croissants made with margarine, instead of butter. Past the boutique with the preppy dresses that never fit me and the bookstore where Mom and I used to play trains at the toy table in back before she ran away from home without me.
Chest tight with an ache so much older than the pain of this conversation, I turn down an alley, then a side street. Soon, I’m in the park where I spent so much time as a kid, under the shade of a crepe myrtle tree that’s seen me cry before.
My childhood home isn’t far from here.
Dad likes living close to downtown, so he can walk to the coffee shop with his paper every weekend.